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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487526">Taking No Account At All of Death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkysetters/pseuds/dorkysetters'>dorkysetters</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Death, Found Family, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Illnesses, M/M, Manipulation, Slow Burn, Zombie Apocalypse, alternative universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:54:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkysetters/pseuds/dorkysetters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wherever someone has stationed himself because he thinks it best, or wherever he's been stationed by his commander, there, it seems to me, he should remain, steadfast in danger, taking no account at all of death or of anything else, in comparison to what's shameful."<br/>-Plato, the Apology</p><p>Or: Will, Hannibal, and Abigail find each other in the middle of the apocalypse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Luck had turned her back on them the moment the Sun had risen that morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were paying for that cruel choice of Fate now; Abigail struggling to breathe under the weight of her backpack, full with the cans of food and bottled water they’d discovered yesterday, face scratched and bloodied from a fall taken only a few moments earlier. Will bore his own luggage with more dignity, but the summer sun pierced straight through his clothes and turned his muscles to jello. The wheat fields surrounding them danced and laughed with the breeze. The hot, simmering air lazed among the weeds and pulled at their ankles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail fell again. Her body hit the earth with a heavy thud. Dry, coarse dirt pulled at her skin and left raw impressions across her arms and face. Will hauled her up by the straps of her backpack and dragged her forward until her stumbling feet found purchase in the crumbling dirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dead stumbled too, in a crowd too large to count while they were running. Will had seen two that morning, had whispered their presence to Abigail and told her to pack up camp as quiet as she could. They’d left undiscovered and celebrated their cleverness with easy laughter and bright optimism as they walked the road toward the next town. As he looked over his shoulder now, he saw the dead from that morning at the front of the herd, hissing and snapping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep going,” Will wheezed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t answer. He had no answer to give her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could…” she huffed, breathe coming and going in ragged patches, words bursting out whenever there was enough room for them on her tongue. “We could...get into a… h-h-</span>
  <em>
    <span>house</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wait for them to....to go away.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will shook his head. He doubted they would make it the next five-hundred feet, let alone the five miles between them and the closest town. Wheat and wheat alone spread over the terrain like wall to wall carpeting until Will’s vision became fuzzy with distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about...a car?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flashed a pitying frown at her. They’d left the road behind long ago in an attempt to ditch the group of rotting flesh trailing them. Unfortunately for Will and Abigail, the dead weren’t as stupid or as slow as they looked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drop your bags.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail balked, face streaked with dirt and sweat that pooled in cuts and scrapes, eyes flooded with fear and the desire to live. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drop your bags,” he tried again, this time working off the straps of his own bags and letting them fall to the ground. Abigail followed his example, shrugging off her backpacks as she ran. A few moments later, Will heard the dead trip over them like dominos. Cans of food rattled. Abigail winced at the sound. “Keep...keep running. Don’t stop. Come back later… for the bags.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail scanned his face for a moment and then did as he asked, not waiting for further explanation or encouragement. Will veered to his left. He heaved for a moment, letting his lungs fill with the oxygen they were burning for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” he called, moving backward and waving his arms. Abigail ran on, faster now that she no longer carried the weight of baggage or of anyone’s life but her own. She was a smart kid. Not necessarily made for the world as it was, but not foreign to it either. She’d make it without him, at least until she found someone else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” he called again, smiling as the dead turned at the sound of his voice and changed their course. “That’s right, come on. I’ll give you a meal to write home about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s hand ached for the weight of a gun, but he’d given his pistol a new home that morning; the gun was a gift for Abigail, a symbol of his trust in her, and a practicality. She was the better shot by far, though she wilted under any mention of the talent. He brandished his hunting knife and waited either for Luck to bless him with her gaze again or for Fate to take him wherever people went when their luck ran out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A short, piercing cry entered the ensemble of summer breezes and hunger-fueled moans. Will’s attention moved to the now empty space of air Abigail had occupied seconds before. He saw rustling crop, a flash of dark cloth, and realized she’d fallen again. “Abigail!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sat up, movements quick and jerky. She cringed as she stood up and threw her hand over her mouth, as if to capture and restrain whatever had been on it’s way out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dead turned towards her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go! Run!” Will pleaded. She tried her best to follow orders, limping instead of running. “Hey!” he yelled, voice strained with panic. The dead ignored him. Like the lion stalking a herd of gazelle they preyed upon the weakest, the easiest catch. “I’m right here!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He started after them, determined to pick off as many as he could before they got close to Abigail, when he saw the man. He stood just a few dozen feet away, hand against his forehead to block the sun from his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So clean</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Will thought. The man’s clothes were dotted with blood that stood out against the light, crisp blue of his shirt and the calm, rainy-day grey of his pants. Other than the blood, he looked like a man with access to a shower, a concept totally out of place in the world they lived in now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked more human, more civilized at least, than any person Will had seen in months, but for no reason he could express with words he felt surely that the man must be a ghost or some other thing that should not walk the Earth but did anyway. The man raised the hand not shading his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt himself do the same. The stranger mouthed something Will couldn’t make out. Will watched the way he moved, the way he held himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will!” Abigail cried again. Will shook the man out of his head and sprinted towards the problem at hand. She had taken the gun out and stood ready to shoot. Will saw her chest rise; his ears rang as she exhaled and the dead nearest her crumpled to the ground and the others closed in. He knew she didn’t have enough bullets for all of them. Her eyes met his. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt like the space between him and Abigail had closed instantly. One moment he’d been staring at a stranger, the next he’d shoved his knife into the skull of a moving corpse. The time in between had disappeared, and now it moved as fluidly as he moved between bodies: stabbing in, pulling out, letting the dead fall, moving on. Will was not alone in this world of altered time- the strange man was there too, walking steadily toward the fight as everything else seemed to move at half speed. Will caught the man’s gaze, watched him smile again. He was close enough to help but watched instead. The dead ignored him, as though he was one of their own. His smile widened as the last of the dead fell to the ground. Will saw Abigail fall to her knees, breath ragged with sobs and exhaustion. The man walked towards Will, movements quick and easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>“Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” Will asked just as the man reached out as if to embrace him, and the world went dark. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The end of the world as Will had known it began with a young boy, aged ten, in a corner of Alabama so small the ambulance called to the boy’s home at the height of his illness drove five miles past it before the driver realized their mistake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This fact would not be known until much later, after the death toll had risen to triple that of the initial estimations and scientists and doctors and politicians were desperate for anything resembling the answers the public cried for. And so a group of bright, exhausted individuals traced the source to the young Alabamian, long dead by that time. Will had watched the report on the news, seen the tour of the boys home and the interview with his sole surviving relative: an older sister, just sixteen. She told her story with empty eyes and hollow words. Her grief swept over Will like the dark sweeps over an empty room when the lights are turned off. His hand found the remote on its own accord and the screen blackened. Will started at the black screen for a long time, waiting for the borrowed grief to leave him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It did not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a lot of news watching in those days when everything was horrifyingly new and the novelty of suffering had yet to wear off. Death tolls, patient interviews, professional advice, quack cures, predictions for the future. The news continued reporting, as it had always done, even after patients started eating their caretakers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On his last day of work, Will stood in a Quantico common area, blank eyes staring in the direction of the small TV screen in the corner. Students and teachers filled the room with their thick, desperate silence. Anxiety filled the air with sweat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>This is an emergency alert from the Department of Homeland Security. All citizens are advised to seek shelter and avoid contact with anyone, ill or otherwise. ”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two long beats of silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This is an emergency alert from the Department of Homeland Security. All citizens are advised to seek shelter and avoid contact with anyone, ill or otherwise.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve heard that thirty fucking times already,” someone hissed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t be here,” one woman whispered. To nobody, to everybody.  “Everywhere else is already shut down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Someone shushed the room. “Look!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Back on screen was the local newswoman. Will had to blink three times to scatter the static that danced around her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We apologize for interrupting the emergency alert, but we just got news of the first murder by an ill individual in Virginia. Please see our website for more information. And please, stay home and stay safe, folks,” she smiled. Will’s heart tore a new seam under the weight of that smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two long beats of silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This is an emergency alert from the Department of Homeland Security. All citizens are advised to seek shelter and avoid contact with anyone, ill or otherwise.” </span>
  </em>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The room was dumb with awe and fearful understanding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go home,” Will thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt three dozen pairs of eyes rush to meet his own. Their weight hung around his neck like wet sand, their fear numbed his feet like a cold wave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Professor Graham?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go home,” he said again, on purpose this time. He glanced at the crowded faces in the room, all painted over with so many different worries and griefs he couldn’t make out individual faces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His gaze flickered to the floor and he held it there. The dirt and grime in the grout of the tiles made swirling faces that smiled up at him. “Go home. Stay there. My class is…</span>
  <em>
    <span> canceled</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the foreseeable future.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There haven’t…” a student started. “There haven’t been any announcements yet. On what to do I mean. The Academy’s still operating like normal.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed low and empty. “The Academy is kidding themselves. I am not kidding you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will waited in thick, fidgety silence until everyone had shuffled out and he was alone with the smiling grout and blaring emergency alert. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence walked alongside him to his car and sat in the passenger seat beside him. It watched what Will watched; the blur of oblivious farmland, of families packing their cars to head wherever they thought safety was hidden, of dogs barking at exhaust as he drove away. He worried about his own dogs, wondered what to do with them. The silence offered no advice. He went home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Six months later Will woke up in the past. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched the ceiling fan above him rotate lazily. It had wide, thin blades that didn’t hum, not the cheap, narrow ones he used to stare up at back home. The sheets weren’t his either; they were cool without the usual cling of sweat, light without the usual feel of threadbare weight. He sat up and groaned, pushing a hand against the pain in his forehead, as the room went fuzzy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until he pushed back the covers and the shock of cool, clean wood hit his feet that the last six months came back to him and the wrongness of the room hit him. It took a few steps for the memories of the previous day to resurface: a herd of dead, a wounded Abigail, an intimidating stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will, with three years experience in the field and a lifetime living among cops and detectives and other people who had cause to sneak undetected out of rooms made it down the long hallway and into the kitchen before anyone noticed him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail looked up first. She was sitting at a piano in another room, hands resting in her lap. She smiled as she saw him; the act made the long, harsh scratches on her face stretch like they were smiling too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will!” she stood but didn’t move towards him. She’d changed clothes since the fight in the field, brushed her hair. A pair of crutches leaned against the piano and made a medical trio of the sturdy, gauze bandage wrapped around her ankle. The calm, easy way she held herself relaxed something tight in Will’s chest. “How do you feel?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just peachy. Where are we?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The strange man who’d waved at Will the day before leaned forward from his place beside Abigail on the piano stool and waved again. Without the blood-stained clothes he looked even more polished and foreign than he had in the field. He reminded Will of the shiny sailboat in the middle of a marina filled with sea-worn fishing boats: beautiful for performance’s sake. “Hello, Will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt around in his pocket for his knife and came up with some lint instead. “You tried to kill me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You what?” Abigail interjected, face suddenly pale. She edged away from the piano. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stranger held up both hands now in casual surrender. “I knocked you out. A simple safety precaution. I apologize for the headache.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t the one with the gun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your daughter did not look particularly threatening. You, on the other hand…well, we all saw what you did in the field.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s not my daughter.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My mistake.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will hummed, almost a scoff but not quite. What else was there to say? He ran his hand along the stainless steel countertop and nodded toward the steaming plate covers dotting it. The smell of rich food drifted his way and pulled a growl out of his stomach and a little hostility out of his posture. “What’s this?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stranger smiled, bright and courteous. “Breakfast. I believe Abigail was anxious to start, but what sort of host makes one of their guests eat alone?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A practical one?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes flashed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail cleared her throat. “So… can we eat?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stranger stood and extended an arm to the covered plates. “Let’s.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They moved the food to the dining room. Will and Abigail sat in desperate silence as the man poured drinks, propped open the french doors, and guided them through a detailed history of their breakfast and the implications of its existence on humanity. At least, that’s what Will assumed the speech was about. He caught bits and pieces of it, specifically those surrounding the words “food” and “eating.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man lifted the lid of the plates. “Fried egg with hazelnuts, green garlic, chanterelles, and blackberries, with fresh bread on the side” he sat with the proud, satisfied air of a cat who’s killed a mouse and dropped it at the front door to be admired. “Enjoy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s sudden bark of laughter overwhelmed the room. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will laughed a little more. “Haven’t you heard? Anything that doesn’t come out of a can is… sacrilege to the new world order.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you particularly concerned with conforming to the new world order, Will? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not particularly.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Let’s eat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will could feel the weight of the man’s stare as he took his first bite. He closed his eyes to hide the fireworks he felt sure were shooting off from his tastebuds. When he opened them the man was smiling. “It’s delicious. Thank you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” the man shuffled in his seat. “I made an educated guess in regards to your culinary preferences. There will, of course, be more time to address that properly in the future.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail’s fork clattered against her plate. “You want us to stay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Certainly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me get this straight,” Will leaned forward in his seat. “You’re offering us your home when I don’t even know your name yet. In fact, I don’t know anything about you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Hannibal Lecter.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will saw expectation glitter in his eyes. “Am I supposed to know you from somewhere?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wondered if you might. I worked as a psychiatrist before.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t make a habit of keeping tabs on every psychiatrist in Maryland.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amusement and offense replaced expectation. “Perhaps in Virginia, then. Home territory.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will glanced at Abigail and took the crease in her eyebrows to mean she had not divulged that information during their time on the piano. “How did you know that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I believe we know more about each other than you realize. For instance, you know that I have resources to spare and a home large enough to house us all securely. I know, or presume, that you know, as I do, that there is safety in numbers. Shall I continue?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re not staying. Not with you,” Will stood. “Thanks for breakfast, doctor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal’s expression was unreadable, almost blank. “My pleasure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will, I-” Abigail started.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, we’re leaving,” he walked out of the room and then back in. “Where’s our stuff?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By the front door.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He left again, found the front door and grabbed his belongings. He left Abigail’s by the door. He made it to the end of the driveway before he heard the door open again. He looked back and saw Abigail moving towards him, her clutch making clacking noises against the concrete. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tall houses hugged the road on either side. Both directions, littered with homes and shops and dark alleyways, looked equally unfavorable. Will’s feet made the decision for him by moving north.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Will</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going? Do you even have a plan?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have something resembling a plan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So what? We hole up in somebody’s apartment, living off canned beans and stale crackers? Wait for my foot to get better so we can keep running for the rest of our lives?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stay there, Abigail,” Will shook his head. “Something feels… off. Like all the furniture in a room you’ve been in a thousand times has been moved one inch to the left.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He went out and found crutches for me, Will. And wrapped up my foot. That doesn’t seem like something a bad person would do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why he did that. I don’t know why he did anything he did.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to die out here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will shook his head. “You’re not going to die.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A gust of wind pulled at their clothes, urging them back to Hannibal’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look. I wouldn’t trust my dogs with Cruella just because she held out treats in one hand, especially if I knew she hid a gun behind her back with the other.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, so I’m one of your dogs now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know what I’m saying.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail goes silent. Will was suddenly glad for the crutches and their constant noise, if only for the subtle assurance that she was still following him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you saw him doing something, or he said something to make you get all paranoid. What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t anything he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not exactly. It was something he showed me in the field, something he forgot to hide. And his performance this morning? God, it reeked of hidden intentions.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More silence. “You’re sure about this?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will stopped, looked back. Abigail stopped too and Will saw how tired she was of running, how much it hurt to run from a place that seemed so safe. “Alright,” she nodded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They walked on, past charming homes whose owners were probably long dead and businesses whose cash registers would never open. It took a while before they came across a car parked on the street, long enough for Will’s shirt to become heavy with sweat and Abigail’s pace to slow considerably. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep watch,” Will said, wiping the dust of the passenger window and glancing inside. “I’ll see if it’s driveable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail leaned against the side of the car. “Aye aye, captain.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tried the door, found it unlocked, and set to work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What happened as Will untangled the mess of wires underneath the steering wheel was later relayed to him over hot chocolate in Hannibal Lecter’s living room, Abigail small and tired with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Two near-death experiences in twenty-four hours. Under normal circumstances I’d refer you to a therapist, but this will have to do.” Hannibal handed Abigail a steaming cup with marshmallows piled on top. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She offered him a weak smile. “Thanks.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what happened,” Will said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was keeping watch, like you asked me to. I guess I forgot the dead don’t always die where you can see them.” She smiled at Will. He didn’t smile back. “One of them was under the car. It grabbed my foot and pulled me down. It would’ve scratched me if the bandage hadn’t been there. I kicked and kicked but it wouldn’t let go. I choked on the smell of it, rot and oil and death. And then Dr. Lecter,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hannibal,” Hannibal suggested. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled again, soft and sweet. Will wondered how she could be so full of smiles, like she kept a never-ending supply in her pocket. “And then Hannibal was there, pulling me up. You saved me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You followed us.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal took a sip from his own cup. “I wanted to make sure you left town safely. Baltimore is a dangerous city.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the real reason.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does the reason matter, as long as the result is the desired one?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will looked at Abigail and saw the sixteen-year-old sister from Alabama, empty and hollow. He blinked and Abigail reappeared. He took a drink. “No. No, I guess it doesn’t.” </span>
</p>
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